How Far We've Come
by GreyEyesGlaringAtShonda
Summary: Yep, this is pretty much entirely AU. I will only say that this story is, like me, in support of BurkeCristina, and will always be in support of BC, no matter what naughty words happen to be said by philanthropists, whom are persecuted, revoltingly.


How Far We've Come 

By GreyEyesGlaringAtShonda

Summary:

A/n: Yep, this is pretty much entirely AU. You need to assume this will be nothing like _**that show**_ from season 4 on (I know what you're thinking…thank god!). I shall cheerfully trouble to say that I have no clue just how _far_ it deviates from _**that**_, because I have, naturally, stopped watching _**that**_ in the entirety. So, I will only say that this story is, like me, in support of Burke and Cristina, and will _always_ be in support of Burke and Cristina, no matter what naughty words happen to be said by revoltingly-persecuted philanthropists. Thank you, and read on. XD

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It started with a rumble. There was a harsh, violent jarring, and she felt the burning warmth beneath her fingers as her world crashed and shuddered with inconceivable anarchy; she was powerless to stop it, blinded by the thick and overwhelming grey encompassing her.

She didn't know what she was doing here. She had a reminiscence of just _where_ she was; she even had a sneaking suspicion of how she'd arrived.

But she didn't know why.

Another ferocious shiver came pounding out from the device.

She'd never even done laundry before.

She wondered vaguely if this was normal behavior for washing machines. She could ascertain, even with her limited knowledge of the subject, that this was an old one. Her faith in its abilities (had she been herself) would have, therefore, been dubious at best.

This was so goddamn _**awkward**_. She hadn't even been invited to the wedding, and now she had to go tell her she'd broken her decade-old launderer, which she'd probably never be able to replace on her own. She cogitated upon the odds that she'd allow her to buy a new one, if she asserted to the conviction that it had malfunctioned from her fault. It was a toss-up.

"Cristina? You just about done?"

She turned. There she was, the woman she'd felt so estranged from, even before they'd even met. She thought she'd known her; gauged her mediocrity and spit it back out again for all it was worth.

God, she'd been young.

"Um…Not exactly." She reverted back to the old trick, perfected in their last association with one another. Her eyes glued to the cracking cement floor, her voice hesitant. "I, uh, got…delayed. And I think I was distracted, I must of done something wrong, because it seems to be having some sort of…grand mal seizure."

The woman stepped forward, her eyes drifting to the washing machine Cristina was failing dismally to shield subtly behind her.

"Honey, it's…_supposed_ to do that." There was a tentative laugh in her throat, mirrored in her eyes. They weren't there yet.

_Yet._ As if. Like they were ever going to get there…like she'd _ever_ allow herself to get anywhere even slightly resembling _that_ again. The bitter laugh coughed its way up her windpipe, escaping hoarsely. Kathy smiled, misreading it.

"Haven't you ever done laundry before, Cristina?" Her voice had none of the usual condescendence or judgment. It was perfectly pleasant.

What had he _seen_ in her?

The question reverberated in her mind, bouncing off her eardrums and slamming against her conscious self.

"Um…no."

She must look so ridiculous. She was fully grown, nearing 30-years-old for god's sake. What the hell was she doing in this strange woman's house, stumbling over her words and averting her gaze from someone about as intimidating as the lady-next-door's _puppy_?

Then again, she seriously didn't like dogs.

_You are Cristina Yang._

She was watching her. Cristina managed to raise her eyes slightly, forcing a weak smile.

"It's almost time for dinner," Mrs. Yang said gently. "C'mon, hon. Let's get you upstairs and washed up."

He remembered this place so well. He knew he shouldn't be surprised by this; he'd walked this trail more times than he could count, and been visiting there since he was old enough to know how to. A quote came drifting into his mind, one he'd read years ago.

There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.

He realized, of course, that what he was experiencing now wasn't exactly what Mr. Mandela has been talking about, but it was the closest thing he could think of to pinpoint it.

The view was breathtaking; with the sun just warm enough to comfort him, and the gentle path brushed over with vivid leaves and unpolluted veracity.

It was his sanctuary. This was where he'd gone, when the world fell back on him, and all that was left that he could be sure of was himself.

Maybe that was the problem. "Himself" was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he felt this way.

It wasn't working; he didn't feel that unbridled surrendering to what was real, and true, and beautiful. He wasn't true. This couldn't be real…and it felt anything but beautiful.

Maybe _that_ was it. He had a sudden notion that it should be storming. An abrupt, sad, and dark kind of beauty. Or maybe it should just be nighttime. That was what it felt like. That was what felt wrong.

Everything had changed. His world had changed, his life had changed, _he_ had changed, but not as he'd thought he had. He didn't even know who Preston Burke was anymore.

He felt as if this should have somehow changed too. He'd thought he'd wanted the comfort of knowing something remained firm, something could be counted on to remain stationery, but now that he was here it felt unnatural.

He continued down the path, listening to the sounds of the horses whinnying on the other side of the woods. It was funny, that he'd never really learned to ride, what with all the time he'd spent here. He'd _ridden_ of course, but he'd never been taken over by it, never fell through to that passion man was supposed to feel when he became one with the beast. He'd enjoyed his rides fine, he supposed, during bits of it, but during other times he'd thought it mildly uncomfortable at best.

He knew Cristina had loved riding. Her father had taught her when she was just old enough to climb onto one. It had taken everything she had in her to climb back on after his death.

She'd told him that once. He'd almost forgotten it. It had amazed him so, when she'd disclosed it.

He'd kissed her that night. A real kiss, where his heart had felt on fire and her hands had drifted over his body with such softness.

_Stop it_.

He passed through under the arch that led into the gazebo, and then seated himself upon the floor of leaves within. He hadn't actually sat, _inside_ the thing, since he was perhaps 12. It occurred to him that it would be mildly embarrassing if anyone came across him. He was known well enough in his on-the-larger-side small town, because of the restaurant.

When he was younger, he'd came here, not only when in need to calm down, but with the intention to do his Deep Thinking; then he'd felt guilty when he wasn't sure what to think about, nervous that it might signify he wasn't as smart as those old souls, those artists, which he read about, who went to some special someplace, to write, to draw, to think. Even when praised and accepted, happily, into the areas of mathematics and scientific study, he'd thought himself a kind of artist. Over the years, he'd realized he didn't need a specific place to do his deep thinking; it happened whenever he paused, whenever he breathed, whenever he thought _within_ himself instead of just with himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to find that place of nirvana, of peace, and felt the familiar feeling of failure when he was unable to. Was this what he had accomplished over all these years? Was he still an overly pompous, puffed-up _child_, sitting in the dirt and trying to meditate in some kind of ridiculous attempt to find inner peace and the deeper meaning of it all?

He sighed, opening his eyes, and his gaze fell on the archway to the outside world. He closed his eyes briefly once more, pain overwhelming him as he was reminded of the last structure he'd seen like this.

"_Okay, so I can't remember what exactly it's supposed to signify. The sort of tent-like edifice is called a _chupah_, which means "canopy," I think. During more orthodox Jewish weddings, there are a lot of traditions that go along with it, but most years I don't even get around to lighting the menorah—" She had paused here, and he had laughed silently, knowing as well as she did that she hadn't even owned a menorah until he'd purchased one "—so I'm not even going to pretend to consider doing them…"_

"_What are some of the traditions?" He inquired, genuinely interested, taking care to flash her his winning smile, in the promise of getting one in return, along with possibly an answer to his question._

"_Um…I think that the groom, I mean, you, is supposed to circle the br—me, seven times, which symbolizes the world being built in seven days…or maybe the seven is meant to signify the supposed 'completeness,' which we can't accomplish separately. I'm not really sure, it was a long time ago, and I always figured there was already enough drinking at weddings to warrant some heavy dizziness, so spinning wasn't exactly necessary…anyway, I'm pretty sure that the _chupah_ should be opened, on both sides, because Abraham and…oh, who was it, Sarah? Baby?" _

_He'd nodded, smiling. _

"_Right, well they did it to show they were welcoming their friends and family...so maybe instead we could get some curtains. Oh, and I know that the _chupah_ itself is supposed to be the symbol of the house that is shared by the couple. Except we have an apartment. And we only have the one window, which _does_ actually have curtains, and the door is facing a hallway, not the street. But whatever." _

_He'd swallowed a laugh, humoring her at the time, and then researching it when he had the chance. He could know name each of the traditions and their symbolic meaning to a fully Jewish wedding, and when he _had_ seen the _chupah_ at their ceremony, planned for its existence and chosen it for the wedding, he had felt overwhelmed with happiness, almost annoyed with himself for the amount of corniness he had allowed to be attached to himself with the prospect of both of their traditions and beliefs (even if she didn't exactly believe in it) being merged, like themselves, on this day._

The brightness and contrast of the scenery around him seemed intoxicating, nearly nauseating him with their inextricable high. His eyes slammed shut, but he could still see the arch, blending steadily into their wedding _chupah_, and now enflamed, burning; burning and degenerating like him; and like their life, their relationship, and their hearts. It was so strong, so constant. Their love was like fire, in all the best and worst ways. Even when it seemed to be out, it was there, waiting, so easily and unexpectedly triggered. Powerful. Heated. Passionate. Growing, changing, evolving. Unpredictable, able to both create or destroy. All of these things, all at the same time.

And he was burning, dying, so close to cinders, not wanting the fire to go out, knowing it couldn't, and ravaging in the sting of the blaze. His eyes seared, his skin burned, and his heart pounded, begging for her, needing the friction of hers near his like sticks rasping together, the only answer to overpower this unnatural flame. Fire with fire.

_Beeeeeeeeep_.

The sound startled him, not least because he was accustomed to leaving his phone on vibrate. He checked the ID carefully before responding.

"Mama."

"Sorry if it's a bad time, good afternoon, Preston. I just wanted to know if you'd be joining your father and me for supper this evening…I realize it's a bit early, of course, but I wanted to call you before the dinner crowd started pouring in; you know once it starts it's impossible to get a moment away…"

"I hadn't thought about it yet, but yes, now that I think of it; that would be wonderful, Mama, thank you."

"Don't be silly, dear, you know you're always welcome. So do you have any plans for the weekend?"

Preston glanced towards his lap, then letting his eyes wander across the ground and to the wall of the gazebo.

"Not really, Mama. Just…to stay in, mostly. I volunteered a shift at the hospital on Sunday night."

There was a short silence, and Burke closed his eyes for a moment, willing for the strength to face what he knew to be coming.

"…ah. That's nice, I suppose. You know your father and I are so proud of what you're doing there, it's so generous of you. I just want you to know that."

"I do, Mama." He relented. He closed his eyes. She was working up to it, but the drop would still be steep.

"We're glad that you're finally…feeling a little better. Doing better. However, we have to wonder, what you're planning to do next, Preston. We…We want to be understanding, Preston, and we realize it takes time. We're not trying to be uncompassionate, darling. You've been through a very traumatic event, Preston…several, actually, in the last year or so. It's not that we want to pressure you, or that we don't believe in you. We just…we're worried about you. We care about you so much. And you have so much talent, so much strength. Such a good heart. Are you really going to spend the rest of your life in Kingston, Alabama, working part-time at a tiny local hospital? It just seems such a…waste. We know you've done great things, Preston. You're capable of so much more. So that's the question, Preston, isn't it? … What are you going to do?"

Preston sat there, silent. He wasn't able to say a word to her, because, fact was, he didn't have any idea as to what to say. The truth was, he didn't **have** any kind of answer for her, because he didn't _**know**_ what he was going to do. He didn't know what there _was_ for him to do.

He hadn't a clue what was left for him. He wasn't even sure what was left _**in**_ him anymore.

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A/N: _First_ write what you want in the review (_¡por favor y gracias!_), and _then_ read my long author's note (_pretty_ please and thank you) and comment on that should you wish to. XD. It makes it easier, I promise.

Okay, so, new story! Shorter story, I think. Yes, it appears this story shall be slightly more angst-y than some of my others (at least at the beginning…then again, I _always_ say that). Oh, and _yes_, Cristina and Burke _are_ going to see each other again eventually (think like…two more chapters, I expect). I realize I need to stop writing more stories, but I have ideas for this, and I think it could be cool, and more original, which is interesting (I'm hoping for originality without a lot of tragedy, which seems, to me at least, to have become a prerequisite for a lot of B/C original stories). I think I'm going to like this story, so hopefully you will too, and you'll review. (Or not. Cry.) _Oh_, and _yes_, this is named after the song by Matchbox 20 (and yes, I named it before I was forced to endure it for the _Pointedly Pathetic_ TV show ads). I happen to like the song, as well as naming fanfiction stories after song titles (not just fanfiction for _that _show, either). I'll probably edit this later and put in some lyrics from the song, and scatter them throughout the story…

Just a recap: It's a little while after the SF (Stupid/Shitty/Sucky Fiasco AKA Season Finale). Cristina, for reasons yet unknown, is staying with a BRAND NEW CHARACTER (I'm intending to make her interesting, I swear), who is her dowager stepmother, and happens to have some (non-malicious) secrets of her own. Burke headed back home, and is being hotly contemplative of his life, if not slightly (yet still hotly)…_wallowing_ about things in it (I reckon we can put up with him, though). Naturally, both are miserable, as they have been put in a nasty position by yucky writers and Female Voldemort-wannabes (She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…though this is sometimes referring to my English teacher. Judge by context), who were just lazy in the first place, which they _proved_ later by going on strike and leaving us with _Tonight Show_ reruns for weeks on end. Enter me, happy BANG writer, helping the situation in lieu of completing chem. assignments.


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